


I met you in the half light

by shadowlands



Series: It was dark when I found you [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowlands/pseuds/shadowlands
Summary: Medical school had taught him nothing and everything. For one the ache in his chest is clearly idiopathic, the paradox ringing especially true at the sight of Akashi by the mirror.He was never yours to save, is a whisper at the back of his mind.Vermilion mop cropped to the roots, Akashi forgoes the grimace for a shy smile. "It was falling out anyway."Midorima steps closer, eventually resting his fingers on the nape of his neck, his knuckles grazing the fine ends. He says, "I like it."
Relationships: Akashi Seijuurou/Midorima Shintarou
Series: It was dark when I found you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749433
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	1. Denoument

**Author's Note:**

> A little context, these are most of the subplots that never quite made it into 'It was dark' strung together. Some oneshots, some connected chapters. Multiple timelines. Expect some level of non-linearity here and there. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments keep me going.

The first sign of what went wrong had been the gunmetal taste.

His tongue was heavy in his jaw, as unmovable as lead. His body felt the same and he fought off another shiver. It came anyway, as graceless and aborted as the slow stutter of his heartbeat. His muscles tensed for one horrible second, a spasm that left him a broken string the next, utterly disembodied. He failed to lift himself up, hazy with a fear he couldn't place.

He lied there in the fog, senses muddied and worn. It was a death shroud that wouldn't lift and he couldn't move. It had been no better than swimming through honey. He laid there and waited, tangled in a dull stupor.

It broke eventually. It broke when he saw the lion. The animal had been carved into the dark oak of the headboard in serpentine lines, as elaborate the ropes that hung upon a grand ship's mast. He had counted the hairs that made up its mane last night, forced himself to count each minuscule stroke of wood as far as his vision could keep up. When he was no longer able to, he felt his way for a memory so far removed from reality and clutched onto it, clutched hard. The back and forth rocking of a swing set instead of the mattress. Lavender, his mother's perfume instead of a man's cologne. Her kiss on the edge of his brow, soft as petals. He remembered her, he remembered and held on. He wouldn't let go, he wouldn't because...

_Satisfy him, Seijuurou._

The strangled noise that rushed out of him was primal. It continued, on and on, with what breath his lungs had in store. Tilting airy sounds that bounced off the walls and back to him, a bird with clipped wings never meant to take flight. Akashi seized and lost all calm. There wasn't a choice, not when the part of his mind that was present started to splinter, small fissures that had his heart plunging into a ravine. Some part of his chest had cracked open and it would never close again. 

_Father... Father, don't g– go._ He had slurred. _Please, 'm scared._

He craned his neck and strained to see himself under the sheets, the movement as rigid as the creaking of rust. The wetness between his legs had been smeared with sleep, his thighs glued together in the mess, stains coming off sticky when pried apart. Maybe if he looked hard enough, it wouldn't be there.

_Stop talking, Seijuurou. Stop talking and behave. Do this and you come home.  
_

When he stood, he was shaking a full bodied shake that had him stumbling as he navigated the length of the bedside. He hobbled, reaching for a grip where he could until he half fell into the shower, catching himself with a palm before he tripped completely. His fingers were as unsteady as the rest of him that it took a good number of attempts to twist the valve before he finally succeeded.

The water came, a scalding rain that dribbled into his mouth. He let it, wanting to rid himself of the metallic taste, as if it would wash away with the current. When it didn't, he groaned and slumped sideways, rear against the tiles, knees buckling underneath him. He stayed there.

_Good boy. You're such a good boy. That's it, open up. Take it._

It continued to pour, an unending sea that clouded the stall in steam. He committed to some pretense of showering, soaping poorly before letting the path of the stream rinse him. He hadn't realize how long he'd taken until his skin started to prune. His nails were near translucent, the rest of his hands a purplish blue.

He turned off the water, the last of it dripping in a decidedly loud series of taps in the silence. He would flinch if he had the energy, but instead he stared, dumbfounded. The rivulets twirled like pink ribbons down his leg. They pooled around the small, near invisible drain before disappearing. Just like that. The only evidence of what happened, the only confirmation it ever took place was gone.

He sat there, shredded like all he amounted to was a gaping wound no one else could see. A whimper crawled its way through his throat, the beginnings of a hurricane. His breath hitched, painfully echoing in the little glass room.

Akashi sobbed, and once he started to cry he found it impossible to stop.


	2. Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the Shuutoku bunch being chaotic and nosy and protective of their ace, if a little misguided at times.
> 
> There probably isn't a formula to this story except slap a wholesome chapter after a fucked up one and back again.
> 
> Kudos and comments protect us from COVID-19.

Like every idea Takao had ever came up with, the study group was a horrible one.

Midorima will amend that, at first it had been a perfectly reasonable plan. Responsible even. They all needed good averages to play in the next Interhigh. Their elders needed to finish their own midterm papers and made perfect tutors when need be. Only he didn't take his friend's truly abysmal self control into account. Takao had a tendency to run amok should the occasion pleased him, and frankly it was a common happenstance. He had known this to begin with, but the surprise was how the rest of his seniors were just as terrible. Enablers and meddlers, the lot of them.

The first clue of the impending torture was Takao's rapid fire greeting of, "Welcome, welcome! My dearly departed graduates, oh, how I've missed you!" With compliments in the form of a prolonged embrace for each Shuutoku veteran. And how. Otsubo and Kimura stood a better chance against Takao's tackles thanks to the firm rooting of a large build. Midorima possessed a great deal of experience at the receiving end of those, they were no joke. If basketball didn't pan out, Takao could have tried a hand at football.

"Oi!" They were barely five minutes in and Miyagi's patience was already depleting at a rapid rate thanks to being squeezed like a chew toy. He pried the other boy off him to hard earned success. "Are you giving me a hug or a pat down?"

The limpet giggled, shameless. Then he as good as squeaked. "Captain grew a beard!" He pointed out like they all couldn't see it. "It looks great, very distinguished. And manly. Like Wolverine." He asked, "Can I touch it?"

"Thank you," Otsubo said, taking the comment in stride, grinning. "And no, you overgrown child."

Takao shrugged. "Worth a try. Come on, I'll show you to the lounge."

It wasn't even his home, and the Scorpio had all but taken to playing host. Midorima was strangely thankful for it though. It meant he didn't have to play nice. He had barely settled in the apartment and was sorely regretting his decision of letting Takao rope him into allowing use of the space for the get-together. He hadn't even learned where everything was yet. He spent nearly half an hour looking for the iron yesterday, how tedious. But what Takao wanted Takao got, it was the way things worked when the other had assisted him with the move. He'd even dare say the boy had been helpful.

Still part of him was grateful for the opportunity to see his former teammates again. They met quite often to catch up, usually in smaller, incomplete variations of the group since gathering all five starters in one room for extended periods required perfect timing. Considering they were all busy, senior year was a mountain slope of exams and decisions while college life tended to necessitate dorms and parties and heaps of credits to fulfill, it was a no-brainer to run with it when it had been possible.

As different as they all were to Midorima basketball made their company most congenial, and that, that he could live with.

"Thanks," Kimura said at the chilled drinks being served. Five men in a foyer didn't illustrate the size of the dwelling, but five men in the living area did. He whistled. "Nice place."

"Nice?" Miyagi looked vaguely disgusted. By then Midorima knew it wasn't really the case, that the small forward's disgust often equated to impressed. Because he had the same reaction when Midorima had first shot a full court in front of them, gaze all affronted and narrowed. "I knew you got a new place, but this is just..."

"Swanky?" Takao helpfully offered.

"A penthouse." Miyagi blinked, incredulous. "A fucking penthouse. A fucking penthouse in a fucking condo I'm pretty sure I need to sell my liver to make rent."

"Ooh." Takao was clearly enjoying this. "Is there a secret nest of organs somewhere, Shin-chan? Are you selling to the black market?"

"That's preposterous." Midorima finally put his foot down. The rent while substantial was no more than pocket change for Akashi. It had been an investment he said, and comparably economical. Considering the town houses he'd examined reminded him too much of the estate, he'd been mostly enamored by the loft which virtually had zero similarities.

"Agreed," Otsubo said. "But it still begs the question. How do you afford it?"

"Doctors earn a lot," Miyagi said, begrudging. "I resent that you'll become one."

"Overachiever," came from Takao disguised beneath a suspiciously abrupt cough.

Miyagi only stretched back into the beanbag he claimed, like a cat finding its spot and snorted. "Whatever. It's your brain you'll turn to mush. Have fun at university." In fact Midorima will. "Your pops is like a lottery dad."

"Hey," Takao reminded. "At least Shin-chan will pay for our meals when we're broke."

Otsubo shook his head. "Even neurosurgeons don't normally make enough to live so... large." He clearly didn't want to use less savory terms and Midorima appreciated it. The flat wasn't lavish by any means, not when Hajime had all but shoved the support of state funding on his nephew. It was downright modest. But within regular standards, it was a splurge. "Unless they're single, even then it's not really the norm. Your dad also doesn't strike me as the type. No offense."

None taken. In fact that was a compliment. Still Midorima sighed. He pitched in with the rent, and will likely contribute more in the future. Akashi and him had talked about it and reached an agreement. Regardless, they had better things to do than discuss this when they could be working on Takao's dangerously slipping marks in classical Japanese of all things. It made sense somewhat. He'd learn it as a second language, but he'd also been domesticated since birth. Alright the material was archaic even for Midorima's standards. But it had been exactly what drew him to it. It was a challenge worth mastering, one that was attainable with enough commitment.

Midorima addressed his words to all of them. "You gossip like a congregation of middle aged housewives."

"Cool, cool." Takao said, "Housewives are cool. They bake really good muffins."

Kimura yawned. He was the only one who hadn't been all that privy and had begun working, typing a little furiously into his laptop. "Seconded." He stopped for a second, eyed Midorima. "It's never too early to start applying, by the way." He already had, having submitted his applications yesterday as he expected the inevitable turbulence most students faced in their final year. He won't be immune to it, not with such changes headed his way. Even the good ones. "Todai, right? Practically no commute."

"Lucky bastard," Miyagi muttered without bite, smirking. "You know you're already a doctor. You dress like one, too."

Takao chuckled at that.

"Prizing our education is important. Midorima's set a good example," Otsubo pointed out, the voice of reason among the undertow of pointless speculation. "I think we should do the same."

That settled it. The next two hours were relatively painless, passing in a tame manner. Miyagi grumbled angrily at the 3D model of the equation on his screen, Takao chewed the tip of his pencil away and Kimura remained uninterrupted as always. They rotated when it came to the point guard's crash course in the subjects he was very nearly failing. Otsubo graciously took the brunt of it, more used to it than anyone. He'd taken journalism so classical Japanese was his. Midorima didn't envy him, chemistry was more his speed. There were far too many cans of red bull being passed around as well as empty calories from the pizza the hawk eye insisted they order, Miyagi being oddly territorial over the ham and pineapple, and yet Midorima was completely at ease.

Of course it couldn't last.

"Hey, what's this?" Takao perused the notes he'd been lent with interest. Very great interest. Midorima had a vague idea of his discovery, and he didn't want to be right. "I can't read this," he exclaimed, making a valiant attempt of it anyway. "Lightning blooms, the light... Wait, lightly–"

Oh, no.

"Takao–" Otsubo reprimanded. Before he could snatch the item from distracting his pupil, however, Miyagi had intervened. Not out of the goodness of his heart, no, rather an unfathomable need to procrastinate.

"Huh," Miyagi said, dumbfounded. Then he lifted the damned sheet, as if tracing it through the light will offer some insight. It did, because when he brought it down close enough to his face, his nose picked up on the smell, sniffing. "Scented paper."

Otsubo scoffed. "Give me that." He cleared his throat. "Lightning flowers bloom. You step into a sunlit room. I think I found my truth." There was more, he knew there were more lines because that had been a very, very rough draft that stretched into too many syllables. Why had he forgotten to dispose of it? The real thing was already in safe hands and any copies were essentially safety hazards.

"So..." Miyagi supplied before the silence thickened. "Bad poetry. Bad love poetry. Who knew you were getting some?"

Takao got it then, having more trouble not laughing than anything else. The dopey grin he was sporting was close enough.

The thing was Midorima thought it would end here, that he'd be spared right then and there. It didn't die, not when his former captain peered into the note, recognition in his eyes and said, "Wait a second. This is... your handwriting. You wrote this."

"You've got a sugar mama!" Miyagi laughed, toppling sideways. How he had come to that conclusion Midorima had no clue, but he was about to find out. "This place doesn't look like a bachelor pad. Lavender's too sweet for a dude unless he's gay or repressed or something. Your calligraphy's too pretty unless it's for someone who can appreciate it. Which leaves out the male population. So, sugar mama."

It was astounding how he could be so wrong yet so right.

"Inaccurate."

"Nope," Takao replied at the same time.

They fell quiet but Midorima knew if he didn't provide an explanation they'd convert into housewives again. He needed to say his piece fast. "It... It's a man."

"We don't have a problem with that," Otsubo said, clearly speaking for all of them. Kimura nodded seriously.

Miyagi looked smug. "Who's the boyfriend?"

Boyfriend didn't sound right. It sounded like they were gangly teenagers who knew nothing. It sounded impermanent. Partners sounded too business savvy even if it was slightly better. Still the question hung like a cloud and it would remain there unless he were to answer.

Midorima took a deep breath and said, "Akashi Seijuurou."

Their former captain sighed. "Suddenly Fukuoka makes a lot of sense."

Takao snickered. "Shin-chan went mano a mano with him and just flubbed."

"You knew, didn't you?" Miyagi cuffed the point guard lightly behind the ears. "Little punk here knew and never told us."

Takao held up a hand as if to solemnly swear in court. "I'm just doing my sacred duty as Shin-chan's shadow."

"But like–" Miyagi stopped, the closest he had ever gotten to stammering. "Like how do you do it?"

"Do what?" Midorima asked. Judging by the way those eyes in the room were trained on him, expectant, they understood the question perfectly.

Miyagi who had never needed to tread carefully around anything sported a rare expression of reluctance. "Date him."

"I just do." Midorima wasn't sure if there was another way to respond.

Then the collective pitying gazes around him clicked. And the question didn't sound as innocuous anymore. Like dating him must be hard, like a task or a chore.

Midorima frowned. Takao picked up on his discomfort and said, "The real mystery here is how Akashi puts up with our princess Shin-chan. Imagine having to alphabetize and color code your spice rack."

Thank you, Takao. Midorima thought deep down.

The rest laughed in good nature. And the idea that it must have taken a saint to put up with a monster like Akashi ebbed into the background where they could all pretend it didn't exist. Because Midorima was faintly aware of how the rest of his teammates never really knew Akashi after he stopped dissociating. What little glimpses they had of him post Winter Cup were too infrequent to truly replace the image they had of him from before. And before didn't really mesh well since the version of events where they'd collided were all around hostile.

"Wouldn't be that different from dating a girl, probably," Otsubo remarked. "People think gender changes a lot of things, but really it doesn't. Not when it comes to activities and common practices."

"Dinner, novelty dates here and there, gifts," Kimura recited. "They make the world go round in my experience."

"Ooh." Takao rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "That last part's gotta be tough. What do you buy the man who has everything?"

"Seriously?" Miyagi chimed in. "Just how rich is this guy, really? You make it sound like he's filthy."

"It isn't that hard," Midorima answered. "I've never really had trouble shopping for him."

Mainly because he didn't have to most of the time. Gift giving had never been a cause of stress when there were plenty more significant sources. And Akashi was simple that way. Chocolates and useless trinkets were a no-go. His time on the other hand would be met with unconditional gratitude. In the instances Midorima spoiled him with his presence, Akashi smiled like he didn't quite believe his luck.

In fact the only time Midorima had given him anything of considerable material value was when he'd presented him the first edition of Madama Butterfly. He had found the ancient copy in an antique store and bought it on impulse since Akashi had once mentioned seeing the opera with Shiori before she'd gotten really sick.

Akashi had teared up at that, a little. Then kissed him stupid.

He understood his friends' puzzlement somewhat. Dating Akashi didn't come easy. There were days where it felt like Akashi was in enough pain to expose a vein. Days where neither of them could help the other. Times where someone would mess up enough to spur an argument, where pride got in the way. They had their hurdles, and they had their moments.

It was moments like that, like Akashi's genuine appreciation, that made everything worth it. Those moments reminded him how incredibly fortunate he had been that they found each other.

"Wait," Miyagi backtracked. "How long were you two an item? Since Teikou?"

They were close since Teikou, but Teikou didn't count. Not really. Midorima decided on, "It's fairly recent."

"Officially, you mean." Takao jutted an elbow onto his side. "You guys are like fated or something. Shit ton of history. You're each other's firsts and everything. This stuff is so sickeningly sweet that I would have gagged by now if I didn't know how hard y'all had to work at it."

Otsubo adopted a concerned if curious expression. "If it has gone on for that long, how serious are you two now?"

"Serious enough," said Midorima. They had an understanding, a commitment. "How is this relevant?"

"I meant," Otsubo said, grimacing like it physically pained him to continue. "Physically."

He opened his mouth as if to reply before his jaw snapped shut, then settled on a mortified, "This is highly inappropriate."

Takao tut tutted. "No, no, this is a discussion of great importance. But no need to worry my friends, I've taken the liberty of sharing my wealth of expertise in the area."

He hardly needed a sex talk from three college students and his shadow. His shadow who couldn't possibly know as much as he pretended to. Even Aomine's shtick was pretending he gets around more than he does in reality.

Miyagi made a disgusted noise. "Don't believe everything you see on the web. And delete your browser history if you open anything this one sends." As if he had personally been at the end of Takao's tasteless recommendations. He probably was.

Kimura had only chuckled.

Midorima scoffed. "I am perfectly capable of recognizing the difference between theater and data." And perfectly capable of blacklisting any misleading information his shadow spammed his way went unsaid.

"But you do fool around, don't you?" Miyagi raised an eyebrow. "I refuse to believe you live like a monk, too."

"Just be safe," Otsubo said. "We just want you to be safe. And happy. We're glad you are, from the looks of it." Then he smiled, a bit of mischief in there. "I trust you have a plan to move things forward."

"I plan to court him with the grace he deserves." That was all Midorima had to say about the matter, because anything else was just ungentlemanly.

Takao, who had fallen quiet, suddenly blurted, "Holy shit." Then clapped his hands on the sides of his face. "Holy fucking shit."

"What are you on about?" Miyagi demanded.

Midorima too had no idea what Takao had gotten into his head.

"You said..." The other blinked, whispered, "You said _court_."

"Okay, we all know Midorima's an old fashioned geezer," said Miyagi. "No need to gush over it."

Takao ignored him and murmured, "I would have defended your honor had the opportunity presented itself. Takao's overzealous, but harmless." Of course he'd skimmed that part. Then repeated in perfect memory, "He would not have spoken so crassly had he known of your lineage."

Under different circumstances Midorima would have been impressed at Takao's recall, told him that he wasn't living up to his full potential. Those were the exact words he'd spoken. In this one he only demanded, annoyed, "You eavesdropped?"

"I didn't stay to watch, I swear," Takao admitted. "I just wanted to make sure he wasn't angry, you know?" He mumbled, "With the rimming thing."

"What rimming thing?" Miyagi asked at full volume, cackling. Otsubo choked on his red bull.

Midorima sighed. "You people are such voyeurs."

"Akashi's royalty, isn't he?" Takao asked, though he already knew the answer. "I didn't figure it out until now, but the thing with the lineage and the covenant, and now you said you're courting him, and it makes sense."

"You're kidding me," Miyagi said. "You're saying that kid's royalty."

Kimura tapped his pen on the coffee table. "Wait, I think there was a branch with the Akashi name in the royal family tree."

Midorima said, "This cannot leave this room. His name was omitted from the line for security reasons."

"Of course," said Otsubo, grasping the severity of the situation.

Miyagi rolled his eyes. "Duh."

Kimura said, "You have our word."

Takao laughed. "Ye o little faith."

"But dude," Miyagi said, fascinated if a little green at the prospect. "There's the nouveau riche and there's this bullshit. It sounds like that kid doesn't have a life."

Midorima winced. "He has... responsibilities."

"Way to put it mildly." Otsubo hummed. "If I'm remembering this right, this means he's fifth in line?"

Takao shuddered. "That sounds exhausting. What a handful. I'd probably shit myself from boredom if not all the pressure."

Funnily enough Akashi wouldn't have objected to that. He was always of the opinion that the work was as boring as it was meaningful.

"Wouldn't this make you prince consort?" Kimura said.

"Hardly." Midorima would call himself no such thing.

"Is he going to sit in parliament?" Otsubo asked.

Akashi planned on three consecutive victories in professional shogi before fully assuming his royal station. "Someday. He's partially attending his duties for now."

"Does he have to wear a phony head thing and strum a mandolin?" Miyagi imagined the absurd sight and laughed. The others soon followed.

Takao brushed away a tear and said, "Please tell me you've got pictures of him in full getup."

Midorima had seen Akashi in ceremonial robes. Their last audience had been a public one and surrounded by a den of vipers, he hadn't been outfitted so much as he was armored. It had been his introduction to the cabinet and Hajime had wanted everyone present to be reminded of his bloodline. Midorima had taken one look at him when he emerged from behind the curtain of the dressing parlor and stared. Embroidered in foxgloves, Akashi only smiled, as sweet and deadly as poisoned flowers.

"No," Midorima told them. He was perfectly content to keep that knowledge to himself. "No blackmail material I'm afraid."

Takao pouted. "No fun, Shin-chan."


	3. Nicotine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or welcome to Akashi's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
> 
> Kudos and comments give me strength.

It should be a good day, in theory.

Akashi's worn from all the negotiating and general use of niceties that comes with the Diet and he schedules his appointments far into the next week because he's tired of seeing people in suits flinging insults at each other and in sore need of a break. Tomorrow's the weekend and he has the rare opportunity to sleep in. He should be delighted.

He's eighteen going on nineteen and it hasn't been long since he's double downed on the advisory role at the office and his uncle's budding diplomat, but some days he feels he's aged three years in the span of six months. Maybe it's the shit storms he has to handle every other week or the wolf hounds that are out for blood, or maybe it's as simple as the long hours that are getting to him.

Point being is that he's having increasingly foul moods despite all appearances telling otherwise. He knows how he gets when he's like this, high strung and listless, that all he does when he has the time to process is feel how thin his reserves are spread. That all he wants to do after he gets home is sleep for a day, or four.

That... isn't good.

Objectively he would tell someone in a similar predicament to slow down, to not burn themselves on both ends. But he can't afford to do the same. Besides he knows he's cut out for this, the stakes, the fast lane. Logically he knows he's more than ready. That the alternative of the mundane while tempting at first would destroy him just as soundly. There is comfort to be found in the knowledge that he is on the right path.

It still doesn't change how much he wants to pass out into something deep and undisturbed instead of dozing off with his consciousness lurking behind his eyelids. Even then he's too keyed up to actually stay asleep, rustling and tossing every hour until he blinks back into awareness and the cycle repeats itself all over.

It's times like these he wants sedatives, but he's just starting to wean off his medication and trying anything new would be counterproductive. He's been wondering if the prescription does anything for him anyway. They blunt out his edges, leave him to float in long stretches of nothing instead of a catapult of emotion, but then again so does alcohol.

It had been difficult to adjust to the cocktail of drugs in the beginning, that he doesn't want it to go to waste. He doesn't want to ask for a different script, to destabilize the program he's been on, stumped or not.

He takes a hot shower, which should have been relaxing, but it makes him feel overheated more than anything. He's barely finished when his stomach lurches and he has to make a beeline for the toilet, retching the instant his knees hit the floor.

His head is throbbing, ringing in time to his pulse as he hits the bed. He doesn't bother turning off the lights, just climbs under the covers and closes his eyes.

* * *

His meeting with Professor Obata is an ill-timed blessing. Ill-timed because it happens entirely by accident, he's already had four classes today and he can't wait to get out of the chafe of his collared hem as soon as he slips into the apartment. That is obviously put on hold when he'd bumped into the professor outside of the labs and the man asks for assistance while he works overtime. A blessing because he invites Midorima to accompany him during his upcoming conferences and by extension is offering himself as a mentor and he'd been vying for the chance alongside just about anyone in his year.

He's still surprised at the stillness with which the other man works, finds himself vaguely inspired by the calm he radiates.

Then he realizes the calm isn't something that comes naturally to him, not when the itch in his movements becomes visible halfway through the hour. Obata reaches for a pack of cigars in his coat pocket, lifts it for him to see. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Automatically Midorima replies, "Not at all, sir."

"Thanks." Obata gives a self deprecating grin. "I've been trying to quit, really. It's just with all this fuss around the research funding I can't help having cheat days. Better you knowing than my wife."

Midorima smiles a little at the admission.

Then he produces a lighter, flicks it on, the end of the stick in his mouth glowing amber and breathes in the fumes. He works better after that, smoother. His exhales are ridden with relief, Midorima can tell. They smell richly of tobacco and he catches whiffs of it when Obata leans forward to instruct him with the cell samples. It isn't something he favors personally and he doesn't think he'll ever partake in the habit. But this is his superior and Midorima doesn't want to curate a reputation for being finicky when his position is so newly minted in these circles.

At least the brand is an expensive one, it isn't rancid or sour like the usual odor permeating off most men. It's a good session, Midorima conducts himself with affable competence and absorbs each of Obata's tells. By the end of it the man is pleased enough to slap a friendly hand over his shoulder as if he's one of his father's colleagues. They agree to meet up for drinks after their upcoming class, to discuss the future.

When Midorima enters the apartment it isn't dark, but Akashi has turned in if the lump on the bed is any indication. He has the right idea. It's late, a lot later than when he usually arrives. And for once Midorima doesn't have to drag him out of the study when he insists on bringing work home or catching up on the online courses he'd been taking.

Still Midorima barely makes any noise when he locks the bathroom behind him and opts for a quick shower. When he reenters the bedroom Akashi is up, the part of the blankets that's obscured his face lowered. He's fiddling with the drawstrings of his sweater. "Hey, I heard you come in."

"Sorry," Midorima says. He knows better that even tiptoeing would wake the other given how much of a light sleeper he is. "I didn't realize how late it'd gotten."

"It's alright," Akashi replies. "Was wondering where you were mostly. Good day?"

"Yeah." Midorima smiles, changing into a fresh set of clothes. "I think I got my mentor covered."

Akashi returns his smile, something like pride in his eyes. "I'm going to guess Hatori if not Obata?"

"Obata," Midorima answers. "He needed someone off the clock to help him earlier. It was a coincidence I passed him on his way to the lab. Said hello and somehow it led there."

Akashi hums. "Funny the places hello can lead you."

Midorima agrees. A little socializing does go a long way. Even Takao's advice can be astute sometimes. "There's a couple conferences in Osaka, probably midway next month. He wants me to join in assistant capacity I think. The details are still a little murky."

"You have plenty of time to work it out," assures Akashi. "Just take it easy. You already got the part. Don't forget he picked you for a reason."

"I will." Midorima nods, dims the light. He climbs into bed, shuffles to his side of it. They both lie down.

"Midorima..." Akashi seems uncertain to broach the matter, which is unlike him. "Did you have a cigarette earlier?"

"I didn't," Midorima says. "You know I don't like that stuff."

For some reason his answer relieves Akashi so much that he sinks into the pillows. "Obata then?" He gathers.

"Yes." Midorima says, "He had a few. I didn't say I minded."

More like a dozen, Akashi thinks. The other man must've smoked on Midorima for the stench to stay on him after showering. Even the body mist seems faint in comparison. But maybe that's just Akashi and his selective attention.

"Ah." The underlying comment is meant to be nonexistent but Midorima is nothing if not attuned to his needs.

"If it bothers you, I promise to load the sheets into the laundry tomorrow."

Maybe not as attuned to pick up on the immediacy of his discomfort but close enough.

"Yeah," Akashi says. "You do that."

There's a part of him that knows he isn't going to sleep, or sleep well, with Midorima this close to him, the smell still in his hair. But there's also another part that will hate himself for being an over sensitive child, which is the last thing he wants to be and what he will be if he asks Midorima to take another shower when he's clearly had a long day and needs the rest as much as he does.

Midorima pulls him in for a kiss and Akashi kisses back, swallowing down the request. It dies when they part and the other eyes him in the muted dark, fond and tired yet his quiet happiness unmistakable. "Good night," he says.

Akashi wants to be half as mature and understanding as Midorima is to him. He doesn't want to be inflexible and stupid. He digs his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood and says, "Good night."

* * *

Midorima wakes with the intensity of someone dunked in an ice tank.

It's not the first time he's woken to Akashi's nightmares, but it's the first time in a long time he startles awake from it. Akashi hasn't dreamed this badly either, not in a while.

The bleariness that comes with sleep is all but drained from him with the sheer terror that soon replaces it when Akashi not only doesn't stop screaming, his left hand starts clawing at his eyelids. "Akashi, _no_."

Usually Midorima makes a point to wait these out rather than interfering. The episodes are never long and most of the time Akashi's disoriented enough that it isn't a good idea to crowd in on him. But there's already red caked under those nails and Midorima isn't going to let him accidentally gouge his own eye out if he can help it.

He seizes the wrist and unfurls the fist to reveal the marks, and releases the breath he'd been holding. Akashi hurts himself often like this, unawares, and Midorima isn't so much capable of stopping him as he is of containing him.

The hoarse sound that rakes through Akashi's throat isn't any more a scream than it is a sobbing cry. It cleaves Midorima's heart in two that he rasps, "Hey, hey. You need to wake up, Akashi. You need to wake up."

Akashi comes to, heaving. Midorima sees the moment the room snaps into focus for him, his face scrunches up and his shoulders shake, wracked with sobs. He tries to catch his breath, but looks sick when he does, turning away and wrenching his arm free. "Akashi–"

The other discards the bed and stumbles away at such speed that Midorima is worried he'll fall but Akashi has other priorities that make themselves known to him once the sound of vomiting hits his ears. There isn't much for him to do then and Akashi has always disliked being watched when he's sick that Midorima leaves for the kitchen, grabs a glass of warm water, hoping to make himself useful.

"Twice in one day," the other mumbles to himself, sniffling and wiping at his mouth when Midorima knocks at the door for courtesy reasons.

He crouches down next to him and offers, "Here."

Akashi who had looked up from the toilet bowl at his entrance, shies slightly when he accepts the glass. "Thank you."

Midorima hasn't heard him fully speak until then and realizes how tired Akashi sounds. His voice is scraped raw, and no amount of whispering can hide it.

Akashi seems to notice too, grimacing at the sip he takes. He vaguely wonders if his pillow is the same way as he is, soaked in tears and spit. He uses up the water to rinse off the taste of acid before drinking the last of it. Then he reaches to the side for the flush.

Midorima only gets up when Akashi does, moving to clean his face by the sink and spray copious amounts of air freshener, and follows him out afterwards. They come to an impasse as soon as they're no longer beneath the arch of the bathroom. Midorima doesn't touch him. It isn't hard to see that a breeze can shatter him with the way Akashi is holding himself.

Instead he asks, soft, "What do you need?"

Even then the question tugs at Akashi like a marionette on a wire. "Just let me sleep on the couch," he says, like he's about to beg for it and Midorima feels worse.

"Of course." He senses the other doesn't want to be accompanied outside, that he would probably appreciate the time alone and tells him, "Go ahead."

"Sorry," Akashi says, apologetic of his tone and the entire situation. "You can go back to bed now. I– Sorry." And sounds as hollow as he probably feels.

Midorima stands in the doorway, returns inside when Akashi leaves. There isn't a chance in hell he's going to sleep, not after that. He sighs, slips back into the baths and washes his hair since he hadn't earlier. He does it slowly because he knows there's nothing that can stop him from approaching Akashi the moment he's done. The other should be allowed the room to regroup, but Midorima has the distinct feeling that he'll fester given enough isolation. He doesn't want Akashi to assemble walls and go back to his self-flagellating nonsense. They've come too far for that.

He walks into the living area with a towel in his hair. Akashi doesn't even see him, knocking back shots in quick succession. It doesn't look like his first drink. Midorima suspects he's been at it since he started sitting there.

He knows Akashi doesn't drink often, not anymore. On the rare occasion he does, it's never alone and usually reserved for festivities. There are still times he drinks when he's upset, but not when he's so upset that he can't think straight because he might pose a danger to himself.

Midorima isn't sure this scenario falls into the safe category, because Akashi is drinking like he has a liver to spare and he's desperate enough to break out the vodka, which he hates but finds extremely effective if his end goal is to get wasted and get there fast. He's just about to pour some more when he grits his teeth and decides otherwise, twists the cap of the bottle back on. He buries his face in his hands, muffles the whistle of a wheeze that rattles him.

The hands drop into his lap and Akashi spots him. Midorima makes his way to the couch, seats himself at a comfortable distance and finally asks, "How do you feel?"

"Pathetic." The sad little chuckle Akashi lets out is a testament to how drunk he is. Because he doesn't do that, laugh at things to spite him.

Midorima frowns. He means to tell him that alcohol shouldn't be his first instinct when he wants to get out of his own head, but he sees how bloodshot Akashi's eyes are, how miserable he is and knows this isn't the time. He has an inkling that something had have to happen for the nightmares to come down on him this sudden and this hard.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" Because for the life of him Midorima needs to know. It's a confronting question and he knows there's a possibility Akashi is going to deflect because they are answers that aren't his to demand. He doesn't have the right to be angry when he does, but the plea in his words ring painfully clear even to him.

Akashi stares at his hand, and no, those aren't maggots eating at his flesh, his fingers are only tingling from gripping a pen for three hours straight since he doesn't want to risk punching Senator Kaede in the face that afternoon. 

"Please," Midorima adds and Akashi finally stares at him instead. His eyes don't water because they have been wrung dry. He still wants to cry again. "Talk to me?"

Akashi doesn't want to tell him the truth. His memory is spotty at best after an episode but even he knows Midorima has always been what brought him out of it. He has never caused one. Until now.

This is it, Midorima thinks. Akashi isn't going to talk. They're going to sit there in silence and they won't get anywhere. Akashi will finally back off from his end of their deal and shut him out.

Midorima is this close to begging him to say something when Akashi speaks, slurs really, "Da– Davidoff."

It's familiar. Then it registers to him the Swiss brand is exactly what his professor had held up earlier. But what does this have to do with–

"You smelled like him."

God.

"He likes to smoke when he beats me," Akashi says by way of explanation. His voice is light, casual and wrong. "Sometimes I black out if he takes too long. But the scent would always be there."

Every night he learns something new. Tonight he learns Masaomi's brand of cigarettes.

He had reeked of it and Midorima feels like a complete fool. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Akashi says.

"I ignored you."

"I didn't ask."

"You did," Midorima says, horrified.

"I didn't ask hard enough," says Akashi, simply.

"You shouldn't have had to," he insists.

Akashi disagrees. "That's not true."

The thing is Akashi doesn't have buttons. What he has are landmines even he doesn't recognize until they're triggered under him. It isn't Midorima's job to navigate through grenades with no safety pins.

"I don't–" He starts. "I don't remember things until I remember them." It's a lame concession to settle an argument but it's all he has. "It's not okay for you to think you have to be ready. And it isn't fair of me to expect you to know without any warning."

"Okay," Midorima says. "I'm still really sorry."

"It's fine." Akashi curls into himself.

"You're..." Midorima places the fear in his expression. It isn't that he thinks the fear should be gone, or some minor thing, but Akashi is swallowed in it. He's perplexed. "You're still scared. Why?"

Aside from the things that exist on the frame of his reality Akashi doesn't know why he's afraid. But the first thing that comes to mind is usually honest. "I feel bad all the time." I feel bad when you're not around, lingers in his thoughts right after, has him more shame faced than he already is. "I don't want to feel bad."

Midorima says, "I know." Akashi doesn't fight it when he holds him. Midorima's rather glad that he melts into it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Then he whispers, voice small enough that it's almost like he's talking to himself, "There isn't enough good in anyone to take the bad out of me."

Midorima wouldn't have caught that if they hadn't been pressed together. He brushes Akashi's fringe away from his eyes. "That's a faulty premise to start with, you know? It isn't like that."

Akashi remains silent.

"No one," Midorima says. "No one is inherently bad or good, or needs to have it exorcised from them. We're only supposed to live as we are. When you live, when you're you, you do have good in you. Even if you're unwilling to see it."

Akashi doesn't scoff at him, but he doesn't seem to be buying it either.

Midorima reminds him, "You know this isn't a straight line. Or a race."

He's told it's a marathon, a contest of endurance. "I know."

"You're going to be okay," Midorima promises. "I'll make sure of it."

Akashi bites his lip. "I'm just another person."

Why am I worth that much? Is a line of questioning that fits all too well with that statement.

Midorima hears it in the spaces in between and says, "You will never be just another person to me."

They stay there in the quiet. With every minute Akashi's nerves fizzle out, the palpable tension in his back going slack. Midorima listens to him breathe.

"You're my one good thing," he says, murmurs before he nods off.

Midorima doesn't exactly know what that means, but he thinks he should be happy.


	4. Drown

"–burns from a cattle prod or a baton–"

"–they wouldn't, he would've repeatedly gone into–"

"–fluid in his lungs consistent with water boarding–"

"–makes sense, he gave Ijuin a black eye, poor guy–"

A slap echoes loudly followed by the ensuing cry of its recipient. "–well don't pour water over his head, just use a wash cloth–"

"–would have done that if I was briefed on this–"

"–I don't think we should keep sedating him–"

The voices drift in and out before they fade away completely.

* * *

Akashi doesn't have to think about it.

"Naoko," he says. "Stay with Toru, okay?" Their escort for today isn't the friendliest of the bunch but he doesn't need friendly he needs discipline, and Toru seems like he's got plenty of it, gruff and imposing as a rock. "I'll catch up in a bit then tonight we can try making mochi from your mother's recipe."

His niece nods enthusiastically at the mention of mochi. She's four and just as precocious as the first time he's met her. "What are you going to do?"

"I need to go invite Midorima. You would want him to join us, don't you?" He should be alarmed by how quickly he comes up with these lies, but right now Akashi is too busy praying he'll convince the child. Children are exceptional in unmasking lies unless they are expertly crafted. Thankfully he's an expert.

"Okay," Naoko says, hugging him tight. "See you soon, 'Kashi."

Fuck. He reminds himself a four year old makes a horrible bargaining chip. No one's heartless enough to forgo a ransom call where such youth is concerned, not even the emperor. Akashi is nauseated by the fact that he needs to get this wonderful child away from him, hands her over to their chauffeur the moment she lets go.

"Take care of her," he says to Toru. The other man's eyes widen when he doesn't move away once he passes the girl to him, instead skims a hand over the silhouette of the gun strapped to his chest. He speaks just loud enough for him to hear. "Head back to base. No shortcuts. Use this if you need to. Be safe."

Toru nods, aggrieved by the implications of his orders. "Sir, reconsider–"

Akashi shakes his head. "We're wasting time."

The man acquiesces at that, bowing as he maneuvers his charge into the booster seat of the car. Akashi waves back at Naoko when she smiles at him from the tinted windows.

Toru drives out of the parking block in seconds. The vehicle's expensive, but it also isn't the kind to draw attention, black and sleek. Its engine is a marvel, or perhaps it's Toru's driving, but either way it disappears from view, practically vanishes into the road.

Akashi breathes easier at that. He isn't even sure if it's the princess or him they're after. Toru is trained for combat and to an extent so is Akashi. Fighting off five men isn't bad as far as odds go, but fighting off five men while having to protect a child isn't a risk he's willing to take. The split second decision may cost him, but at least he has bought Naoko time.

He might be paranoid for all he's worth, there are no shadows tailing him as he walks at a brisk pace into the closest building. Still better safe than sorry that he speed dials his uncle. The call is about to connect when the cloth wraps itself around his mouth, acrid and cloying. Akashi kicks at the body in front of him, behind him, blindly throws for a punch. Some of them hit, making hard contact but his phone also gets stepped on, a crunch of metal against concrete. They're crazy to do this in broad daylight, or maybe they're crazy prepared because it's the shittiest timing for there to be no witnesses in a shopping district.

"Fucking stay down," one of the men mutters. Akashi doesn't stay down. "This is a goddamn bitch."

What, kidnapping him is supposed to be easy? He rages, knees someone in the balls judging by the yelp and how one of them falls out of their little circle clutching their groin, tears at a nearby face with his nails. He isn't one for technique or etiquette at this point. The lack of oxygen makes him drowsy, weakens his strikes.

It doesn't take long before his head starts to feel like cotton. A different voice croons, "Attaboy. Easy now."

It's dark after that.

* * *

"He hates being drugged!"

He's being wheeled into brightly lit halls and he thinks he doesn't mind this voice, even with how angry it sounds. There's authority in there, kindness, too.

"Doesn't everyone?" Someone asks, incredulous.

"You don't understand," says the man, frustrated. "Will you just let me–"

He slips into a seizure, doesn't hear anything anymore.

* * *

He knows his captors are mercenaries. The question is how professional they are. He finds it funny that one strives for professionalism in a career as bankrupt as this, but he hadn't created this world to begin with so his doubt is insignificant. He's a little out of it, with the torture and the gravity. They keep moving him in the hopes of scrambling his memory, that he hasn't the vaguest clue of his location. Which is smart.

He doesn't break under assault, makes their jobs difficult. Then they strip his shirt, ties the fabric into loops over his face, lay him flat to douse him with buckets. They shock him and the tip of whatever object they use zaps a cold burn he can feel all the way to his bones. Which is stupid.

An infant can figure out water and electricity don't mix. He isn't going to last at this rate. It's only been a day.

* * *

Sometimes the wetness cascading over him feel like tiny prickles on his skin, barely anything, other times it rains like a hail of bullets. This is how he knows his nerves are shot. That it's gone long enough for it to be dangerous.

"Your treasury codes," one of them spits, impatient. Hajime hasn't paid, good. That's why they want his access codes. "Give it and this stops."

It has also gone long enough for him to lose his better judgment because he says, "Fuck you." And laughs.

The one leaning against the wall of the room, the one who had bizarrely attempted to soothe him once or twice throughout all this, smirks lazily. "Masaomi wasn't kidding when he said you're a piece of work."

Convicts, these people are convicts. It doesn't surprise him the slightest that his father is capable of causing problems even from prison.

He laughs at that, too.


	5. Drown (cont.)

"I want to go outside," he says. Then ambles away from the proffered wheelchair, only to veer sideways back into the bedpost, knees trembling. "Let me walk."

"Sir, you can't. You'll pull your stitches." The nurse is female, thank god, and he almost feels bad for ignoring her. "Please, you need to stay here. They'll have the kit ready to examine you soon."

"I don't need the test," Akashi insists, aware he's out of his mind and that he absolutely needs it. He'd been fine with all the precautions in regards to the abating concussion but that had been yesterday. His patience had diminished significantly since then.

"Sir–"

"What's wrong?" Ijuin comes in ready with a sponge and a handful of towels. "Risa, the professor told me to bathe him before the kit. Help me get him up?"

"Of course," Risa responds. Akashi wonders if he has a say in all of this, and supposes he doesn't. "I'm sorry, sir. Please let us help you."

To their credit they had not been needlessly forceful with him. They don't jostle him, don't make his tender side worse. Despite them minding his injuries however Akashi hardly feels any consolation about the thought of the exams, invasive as they are given his experience, in addition to the bath. Washing himself isn't a problem had his shoulder not been dislocated, and his legs barely able to support him. Alas he has to deal with two strangers, albeit medical professionals seeing him naked.

Risa is the one to unclothe him beside the claw-foot tub, but it doesn't stop the hot flash that has his whole body shuddering as the hospital gown and pants start to come off. He can't do this. "Stop. Stop."

"Sir, please, you're alright." Risa keeps going and her hands are smooth and perfumed, fingers slender and nothing like the four men who had held him down strapped to a table. The shower is bright and clean, a sterile environment. It's the furthest thing from the stale air of the filthy, windowless cell but his breath is lodged in his throat, coming out in stutters. Each time spots obscure his vision he's losing touch with reality, and not even his nails raking on the edge of the tub can steady him. His head is swimming and his heart is beating too fast. He wants to get out. Pry away those hands. "You're alright, there you go."

Why is it that each time he actually needs to he can't detach from himself? Aren't hostages supposed to experience pain through a film?

"Uh-huh," Ijuin says, testing the spray. The pressure is still not recommended for fear of his wounds tearing open so the male nurse fills up a basin from the side, lifts it. "Water's a little cold, but it should be okay."

"Wait, Ijuin–"

The second he's drenched his arm shoots out. A pained yelp, not his own, bounces off the tiles. "Ijuin, you idiot! Did you not read his file?"

If Akashi had been paying attention he would have noticed it's a clean hit, far than what he should be capable of in his condition if not for the adrenaline. In one strike he had sent the man careening into the wall, wincing as he touched the bruise blooming across his swelling eye. "No! I was taking over Kanae's shift for her–"

But Akashi isn't paying attention, he's too busy crawling off the tub, half dressed and completely soaked. A current surges up his spine, but there isn't a taser anywhere and his legs buckle after he falls out of the bath. He's delirious with fear, muscles clamping down on nothing and he wants to cry out but his voice disobeys. 

"Shit!" Ijuin's righteous anger melts into panic instead. "Risa, get the Valium!" The other scurries for the cabinet in the other room. "Quick!"

He very nearly bangs his head on the floor if not for the nurse who wrestles him flat on the ground, head on his lap, and pins his arms away. "Sorry, buddy. I'm really sorry. You're gonna hurt yourself. Risa, come on!"

"Here!" She falls to her knees. Akashi flinches, squirming to the side, but she locks his elbow in place. "Calm down. You're going to feel a tiny pinch..."

He doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel anything, staring at the lights on the ceiling.

* * *

Midorima has been a resident for almost a year, but nothing could prepare him for the events of the past week. Coming home after a full day's shift to find his texts unanswered isn't abnormal for Akashi, really if he calls the other will almost always pick up. But coming home to find Hajime standing in his foyer dressed in a three-piece is certainly abnormal. Midorima almost thinks the emperor had broken in, but then he remembers Akashi had told him he'd given his uncle a spare key. Kagami Dazai is with him, sitting on the bench next to the counter for the keys and coat hangar. Midorima isn't aware they were planning on a social visit, if so Akashi had been remiss in reminding him.

"Sir." He bows slightly to both men. "Kagami-san. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He recalls his boyfriend's agenda for the day. A rare occasion of shirking his duties that arrives once in a blue moon and the young man had chosen to spend it spoiling his niece. "Akashi hasn't arrived I'm afraid. Something about a play-date with the young princess." A play-date that ran late, he marks the time on his watch. "I assume he'll be back soon."

Midorima almost feels like he's on a variety show of sorts, uneasy at the hiking tension, because this is just not the norm. Where were Hajime's men? But it isn't like he can stroll into the apartment with the entire national guard. Dazai's bulk is more than enough to compensate anyway.

"Shintarou-kun." Hajime smiles with difficulty. "I apologize for the abrupt visit. But it's a matter of urgency."

"Can we take this inside?" Dazai asks, a laptop folded between his elbow. It's only the third time he's met Akashi's new director, and he's struck by how different the man is to his son then, dignified and cold. Dazai burns like tempered steel for reasons unknown.

It isn't his usual demeanor and Midorima replies, "Of course." He ushers the two men into the living area and says, "Please make yourselves comfortable."

Minutes later he's serving store bought tea to the akitsumikami. It hits him how absurd this is, Friday night with the son of heaven and his partner's business associate, with said partner nowhere in vicinity. Akashi's absence needs to be rectified. "Excuse me." He flicks out his phone as soon as he's done pouring the cups.

"Shintarou-kun." Hajime stops him. "You won't reach him."

Midorima says, "What?"

Dazai lifts a zip-lock bag containing scraps of metal. It's shrapnel for all Midorima knows until a second later he realizes it's the remnants of Akashi's phone. "What–" Then it becomes painfully clear why they're here. Midorima asks, "Who did it? Who took him?"

"We don't know yet," answers Dazai. "Not for sure." He's still keeping an eye on the laptop, vibrating with impatience.

"You're waiting for a ransom call," Midorima says, the realization working like gravity on him. The sofa is terrible, everything is terrible.

Hajime says, "That already came. We're requesting proof of life. Still pending."

"How much?" Midorima asks.

"Not nearly worth his life," Hajime says, unyielding. "We're not paying. They will terminate their bargain the moment the transaction goes through. We have an extraction unit on their way."

"He could be dying!" He could be dead, Midorima realizes.

"No, they won't kill him." Hajime is certain. "There's an implant I've managed to convince Seijuurou to wear. The tracker went in and out, and only gone dark two hours ago."

"Which doesn't mean anything," assures Dazai. "It just means they've moved him somewhere, probably underground, which is my best guess. Subway tunnels or old abandoned demolition sites. There's a good thirty of them in the city and suburban areas."

This isn't supposed to happen. How could this happen? "He had a detail, didn't he? Toru?"

Hajime sighs, revealing, "Seijuurou sent him back with Naoko, for fear of her safety." Of course Akashi would. "A wise decision, but one at a cost."

"It's here," Dazai announces. He pulls up the video for them to see.

It's a dark cellar, backlit by the harsh glare of a fluorescent lamp. There's three shadows at the end of the room, one operating the camera. Four men. Or at least that.

Akashi is bound on a chair, arms tied behind his back. He's bruised to hell, shirt torn where it isn't scuffed with dirt and grime. There's red mixed in there too and his pants are soiled. It's not piss, not with the way the fabric isn't darkened, instead smudged with streaks of white. Midorima grits his teeth, swallows hard.

"Look up," the camera man snarls. "Read the print." He isn't keen to talk more, probably for fear of a voice print match.

Akashi doesn't follow the instructions. He's awake, but he isn't making eye contact. He's staring at his lap, head swaying a bit. "Fa–" He spits out blood next to his feet. He wheezes, coughs wetly. "Father did it."

There's a split second where Midorima can see his eyes and it's a shot through the heart when he sees how glazed over they are, fevered and dilated.

"You little bitch–" The masked camera man comes into view, backhands Akashi. The chair nearly topples onto the cement, its legs creaking. Akashi doesn't even cry out when he's dragged by the hair, shoved headfirst into the floor. "You haven't had enough, have you?"

"Yo," one of the shadows calls. "Get him here. Fucking emperor already knows the kid's in one piece, mostly. Yadda, yadda. We didn't cut off his tongue or fingers or anything. We're done."

"Pay up." The camera man says, tugging Akashi by the neck as he limps. "Or we'll play here with the little prince some more. But we'll do that anyway."

It ends there. Dazai very nearly cracks the screen when he slams the laptop closed. "Any distinguishable markers?"

Hajime says, "Location is nondescript. But the pipes suggest it's midtown, the older neighborhoods."

"What Akashi said," Midorima starts. "Masaomi had something to do with this."

"He could be hallucinating," Dazai points out. "He looks concussed."

"I don't think so," Midorima says on a gut feeling. "The man in view. His sleeve rode up when he was manhandling him. There's a tattoo."

Hajime agrees. "I hate to say this, but please replay the last bit of that wretched thing. I think I may be able to recognize it, if it's Yakuza."

Dazai freezes the shot. It's hardly much. Flecks of black, triangular. A serpent's tail, an ibis' wing, fish scales. It could be anything.

"One of the Eastern triads." Hajime says, "He's Cantonese. Explains the accent. Yeung or any of the hit men Rei has employed in the past decade."

"I don't think it's Yeung. He only honors contracts. This is just greed. It's also a bad job. Rei wants to be on your good side." Dazai asks, "One of Mirai's men walked free last month, think it's him?"

"The exiled retiree?" Hajime wonders. "He's serving a forty-year sentence... in Fuchu. Oh."

"Mirai freed him on bail." Dazai says, "She's taking over the business for her father."

"He's from Aomori, isn't he?" Hajime tries to remember. "His wife kept sending Rei apples. They're heading north."

Dazai nods. "I'll tell the team to locate Hanyun. See if he's made any purchases or vehicle rentals. He's exiled, alright, but he was one of Rei's favorites before he turned. Crazy bastard."

Hajime nods.

"I'll get more tea." Midorima stands, sick with worry.

"Shintarou-kun." He turns to regard the monarch. "It will be okay. We'll have him back by dawn."

Midorima doesn't reply, just heads to the kitchen. It's going to be a long night.

* * *

They had him by dawn.

Three days later.

* * *

Name, check. Date of birth, check.

"Can you tell me what day it is?" Midorima asks gently. There are dark half moons on Akashi's palms and he doesn't have the heart to drug him, not after the incident where the other punched a clueless nurse. Besides it's ill advised after the doses he's been on. Akashi is still biting into his mouth, hands clenched and Midorima realizes he's trying to ground himself and he's failing. He can't stand to see this and do nothing. "Please. Try to remember what day it is."

Midorima puts down the clipboard, shuts the door. He doesn't care about the rules, not right now. He leans on his bedside, grabs his clammy hand. "Akashi, I'm right here." That's right. He may be working, but this is Akashi and he means a lot more to him than the caveats of his profession. "Please."

Akashi looks at him, finally. A little unseeingly, but it's a solid attempt.

"Good," Midorima says, a flicker of hope rising in him. "What day is it today?"

"Tuesday," he mumbles.

The flicker dies instantly. Midorima tells him, "It's Thursday."

"Oh." Akashi looks away, ashamed.

"Naoko and Fumiya visited yesterday, remember?" His voice lures the other to return his gaze to him, slowly if indirect. "They got you those scented candles. It's right there on the table." 

Akashi stares at the fine wrap, doesn't give away a single tell if he does. He only frowns. "It was like this, last time."

"Last time?" Midorima still asks, although he has a hunch he wishes were untrue. Memory lapses, being unable to stay present until the day slips and passes without one's knowledge is a sure sign of dissociation.

"I don't remember how I got from the hotel to school. Just remembered being at the gym, people yelling. Then the one-on-one. Why won't my father leave me be?" Akashi laughs, half sobbing. "It doesn't matter if I'm fourteen or twenty-four, he does this and I fall apart. I'm a mess again."

"Akashi, anyone would be." Midorima tells him, knowing the truth makes no difference. One hundred hours had been short in theory, but it'll feel like a lifetime had you been subject to every type of torture short of sensory deprivation. "There isn't anyone who could live through what you did and come out of it unscathed."

"It doesn't matter."

Midorima pushes back the hair from his eyes, silent. God, they're bright. Too bright. They're amber speckled in gold.

Akashi sniffles. "You should go back to work. My concussion's better, it's not bothering me."

He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you like this."

Akashi only twists on the bed, curls away into the closest thing to a fetal position without straining his stitches.

He texts Chiro, the fellow attendant who does cross-department, and more importantly owes him a favor. The man easily agrees to cover the rest of his shift, it was his last anyway and Midorima sighs. He sits there, at the foot of the bed. After deliberating, he finally rests a hand on Akashi's own, squeezing minutely.

Akashi acknowledges his presence, squeezing back. It's quiet, just the faint thrum of air through the filters. Then Akashi asks, barely audible, "What if–" His voice catches, thick with fear. "What if I wake up tomorrow and I'm not me?"

Midorima says, "Then I'll be here." They both know this next part, but it still doesn't change that he doesn't tell him nearly as often as he thinks he should. "I love you and I want to stay with you."

Akashi is shaking, tears spilling into his mouth. "Love you, too."

"We will get through this." Midorima says, "Until then I'm right here."

"Promise?" Akashi smiles.

Midorima says, "On my life." He looks at those eyes, the color of a dark sunset, memorizes them. "Rest."


End file.
